The #Broken_Dagger Forum

Late night of the thirteenth day of the ninth month, 214.
Myrken Wood.
Tready's Toys.

Light burning from lamps, offering dim illumination around the Deck in the center of the town. Usually, the night is empty, desolate. Tonight, that lamp light catches on the sides of a passing--now stopping!--small, wooden carriage pulled by a horse barely muscled enough to pull the wagon about. Faded black painted text, rain-lashed and weather-beaten, shows beside an equally worn painting of the top half of a round, bald, merry, old gentleman surrounded by what might have once been stacks of toys and stuffed creatures.

Cliché Toys - Roderic G. Cliché, Owner.

Axles squeeee as the driver of the coach--the short, plump fellow from the painting on the side--hefts himself carefully down and off the vehicle; horse is tethered to a post near the Deck, and mane is stroked.

"Stay right here, Stanley. Good boy."

Brown robe, a little loose, hood raised. Wooden cane; dusty street. Leather boots carry their wearer past the shadow of the deck.

A snifffff. Wriggle of nose and mustache catching gray in the lamps. Jangle of keys from a pocket. Insertion into lock.

Tumblers jingle. Clunk of certainty. A nudge of weight against doorframe, and eyes adjust to a little more light within: a glowing fire in a heart opposite, near two ample rocking chairs.

Nose wriggles again; pudgy thumb goes happily into lips for a giggling sucking on. Squeak of elderly voice--though not from the visitor.

From a great body darkening its share of the counter to the left, backlit from a glow through an arch. Smells of warm tea from beyond.

"You don't look the typical thief, mmph, and I am hardly open for business at this hour, but I left that front door locked, hm hm! Speak!"

A great grin comes to the visitor as thumb steals from lips.

"Aloisius!"

Brown robe fluffs up, bunched into a pudgy fist. Cane is tucked under arm. Elderly feet scurry more quickly than in many years around the tables, around the counter, and hem of robe and wooden cane are dropped to free both arms for a warm, sudden squoosh of a hug.

"Good merciful heavens, you old pig! Look at you! Did you up and eat all the children visiting here rather than make toys for them?"

"Roderic?"

Furious nodding setting cheeks a-jiggle.

"Roderic Cliché! You--you've not changed a bit! But what do you mean, mmph mmph, skulking about in my toy store at this time of night like a common crook?"

"Skulking about?"

Snorts, for vastly different reasons, erupt from both men.

"Aloisius, you've not changed the door's lock since I left here years ago!"

Night of the fourteenth day of the ninth month, 214.
Myrken Wood.
Tready's Toys.

Arrangements must be made! Such was the final advice of Aloisius Treadwell last night before the two men scurried out into the night in Roderic Cliché's carriage to see the old man safely home. It meant awaking Gregory the butler and finding room in the unused stall next to Arnold and finding a spare bedroom in the house for the night, but all went well enough.

That was last night. Weekly duties at the Tubbian church saw Treadwell away there for the day, but now the two men meet again at the toy store in the heart of town--this time dropped off there by Gregory and Arnold, there to stay the night, each one in his respective night clothes: Aloisius in his yellow pajama jumper and Roderic in a light brown gown, pair of slippers, and cap. A fire again warms and lights the main room, through which the newcomer strolls, one hand on his cane and one hand playing with and poking at the tinker toys and stuffed creations. Behind him, by the fire, Treadwell rocks gently on his feet, hands on his belly, grin on his face.

"I like what you've done with the place, old friend, save that pig hole behind it. What's that much about?"

"That's for Pinky. She's my old sow, mmph, who comes by once in a while. I like to keep eyes on her here whenever she's about to drop a litter, mmph mmph."

"But it can't be good for business, can it?"

"It doesn't hurt business, Roderic. She's nowhere near the toys, and she can't get this far into the building, anyway."

"Still, Aloisius, I can't say I care for it myself, but that's beside the point. Your toys. . . You've improved a great deal since I left here years ago. I'm rather pleased--plum tickled by them! Look at this pudgy little green dragon, for instance!"

Fingers close on a well-stuffed wyrm, lifting it from the table and bouncing it about in the air.

"Splendid work, Mr. Treadwell, splendid indeed!"

"Why, thank you, mmph mmph. But, umm. . . I haven't asked you yet, and I don't mind your company. . . but why are you back here, Roderic?"

Dragon is returned to table to sit menacingly next to a small army of painted metal knights.

"I was lonesome, Aloisius. There's not a soul to do business with properly in New Dauntless, it seems. They've little use for toys there. Myrken Wood's about the only place I've ever had a successful shop."

"So, company, is it?"

"Business, Aloisius. I've returned here with a proposal, and it's one I think you might do well to consider in the time I've been about talking with people today. Your Gregory and your Alice and your Elizia are all quite pleasant conversation."

"Business, mmph mmph? Do tell."

Into his rocking chair Treadwell sinks, squinty eyes watching his companion.

"You've a spare room here, currently decorated to the tastes, I'd wager, of your young son--the baker, is it? I think Alice said he was 'Gideon?'"

"I do, and he is."

"And you've this new position, it seems, of 'Lord Steward!' I can't say I know much of what that means, but I used to own a goodly plot of land as a family inheritance and was rather important in a town smaller than this, and it sounds like you actually might just mean something to the people here."

"I am basically their governor, Roderic, for about the next year, mmph. The king's man put me over the province while I work to fashion a new, larger ruling council."

"And I suppose this means you won't have as much time to run this toy shop while you're doing that."

"I likely won't."

Roderic stops by the counter, leaning against it, resting an aching hip and rubbing a hand down his stomach.

"I want a proper toy shop again, Aloisius."

"I'm not looking to sell this one, Roderic. I've become quite fond of it, mmph mmph."

"Oh, I wouldn't dream of buying it out from you. You've been here for, what, nearly ten years, and barring a couple of months when I came back six or seven years ago, this has been your building."

"For most of that time, yes."

"Eh?"

"Never you mind. There was some question, for a time, of whether I truly owned the building. Go ahead, Roderic. Talk."

"I propose a partnership, Aloisius. Half and half. You and I own the place together, and we work together to set the prices and supply the stock and make the sales. In return, we split the profits evenly, and you have more time to devote yourself to your governmental duties."

"But I lose half the income from the toy store, Roderic. I've a wife, two siblings, seven children, and servants to feed, mmph mmph."

"Very well, then. What of this? What I make and sell of my own toys, I claim full coins on, and you take the rest as you would. I could pay you a fee for rent, if you like, as I could live in your son's room, there."

"As long as you keep very careful receipts in the book there under the counter, mmph mmph. What of your carriage and your horse, though?"

"I can rent a stall here in town reasonably close by for those, can't I?"

"I suppose. Do go on."

"We even keep your name on the sign, if you like."

"All very generous, Roderic. Quite generous. And you speak true; I'll have much less time for all of this than I will like in the next few months."

"I won't alter a thing about the store, Aloisius, even that horrid pig pen behind it. How often does your Pinky need to be there?"

"She has maybe one or two litters a year, if that, hm hm."

"I don't know a thing about pigs. I make toys; I don't farm swine, sir."

"I'll be the one to worry about Pinky, mmph mmph, or to find someone to do so, Roderic."

"Splendid!"

At this, Mr. Cliché eases forward from the counter, stepping around it to put a hand to the broad, leather belt covered in pouches and tools, hanging on the wall.

"Excellent craftsmanship, sir. Very well designed! So, partners, sir?"

"I'll write up a contract in the morning, mmph mmph. We can study it over breakfast."

"But there is one more thing, Aloisius. It's nothing to do with the store, of course."

"Then what?"

A sigh. A slow turn to face his larger companion.

"Your older sister, Elizia. I've not been in love or wed in some time, Aloisius. . . but your Elizia enchants me. Have I your permission to court your sister, sir?"